THEY COME! THE MERRY SUMMER MONTHS.

THEY Come! the merry summer months of beauty, song, and flowers;
They come! the gladsome months that bring thick leafiness to bowers,
Up, up, my heart! and walk abroad; fling cark and care aside;
Seek silent hills, or rest thyself where peaceful waters glide;
Or, underneath the shadow vast of patriarchal tree,

Scan through its leaves the cloudless sky in rapt tranquillity.

The grass is soft, its velvet touch is grateful to the hand;
And, like the kiss of maiden love, the breeze is sweet and bland;
The daisy and the buttercup are nodding courteously;

It stirs their blood with kindest love, to bless and welcome thee:

And mark how with thine own thin locks-they now are silvery grayThat blissful breeze is wantoning, and whispering, "Be gay!"

There is no cloud that sails along the ocean of yon sky,

But hath its own winged mariners to give it melody:

Thou seest their glittering fans outspread, all gleaming like red gold;
And hark! with shrill pipe musical, their merry course they hold.
God bless them all, those little ones, who, far above this earth,
Can make a scoff of its mean joys, and vent a nobler mirth.

But soft! mine ear upcaught a sound,- from yonder wood it came!
The spirit of the dim green glade did breathe his own glad name;-
Yes, it is he! the hermit bird, that, apart from all his kind,
Slow spells his beads monotonous to the soft western wind;
Cuckoo! Cuckoo! he sings again,- his notes are void of art;
But simplest strains do soonest sound the deep founts of the heart.
Good Lord! it is a gracious boon for thought-crazed wight like me,
To smell again these summer flowers beneath this summer tree!
To suck once more in every breath their little souls away,
And feed my fancy with fond dreams of youth's bright summer day,
When, rushing forth like untamed colt, the reckless, truant boy
Wandered through greenwoods all day long, a mighty heart of joy!
I'm sadder now-I have had cause; but oh! I'm proud to think
That each pure joy-fount, loved of yore, I yet delight to drink:-
Leaf, blossom, blade, hill, valley, stream, the calm unclouded sky,
Still mingle music with my dreams, as in the days gone by.
When summer's loveliness and light fall round me dark and cold,
I'll bear indeed life's heaviest curse, a heart that hath waxed old!

LADY CAROLINE NAIRN.

I'm wearin' awa', Jean,

THE LAND O' THE LEAL.

Like snaw-wreaths in thaw, Jean;
I'm wearin' awa'

To the Land o' the Leal.

There's nae sorrow there, Jean;
There's neither cauld nor care, Jean,
The day's aye fair

I' the Land o' the Leal.

And lives out the glad tidings of "Serve God and be cheerful." Live

The wind blows cool; the scented Now gaze on nature, yet the same;

ground

Is breathing odors on the gale.

Mid yon rich clouds' voluptuous pile,

Methinks some spirit of the air Might rest, to gaze below awhile, Then turn to bathe and revel there.

The sun breaks forth; from off the

scene

Its floating veil of mist is flung;
And all the wilderness of green
With trembling drops of light is
hung.

Glowing with life, by breezes fanned,

Luxuriant, lovely, as she came, Fresh in her youth, from God's own hand.

Hear the rich music of that voice,
Which sounds from all below,
above;

She calls her children to rejoice,
And round them throws her arms
of love.

Drink in her influence; low-born care,
And all the train of mean desire,
Refuse to breathe this holy air,
And mid this living light expire.

CAROLINE E. S. NORTON.

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,

There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his lifeblood ebbed away,
And bent with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand,
And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land:
Take a message, and a token, to some distant friends of mine,
For I was born at Bingen, at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around,
To hear my mournful story, in the pleasant vineyard ground,
That we fought the battle bravely, and when the day was done,
Full many a corse lay ghastly pale beneath the setting sun;
And, mid the dead and dying, were some grown old in wars,
The death-wound on their gallant breasts, the last of many scars;
And some were young, and suddenly beheld life's morn decline,
And one had come from Bingen, -fair Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my mother that her other son shall comfort her old age;
For I was still a truant bird, that thought his home a cage.
For my father was a soldier, and even as a child

My heart leaped forth to hear him tell of struggles fierce and wild;
And when he died, and left us to divide his scanty hoard,

I let them take whate'er they would, but kept my father's sword;
And with boyish love I hung it where the bright light used to shine
On the cottage wall at Bingen, - calm Bingen on the Rhine.